Mabari & Magus
by Enaid Aderyn
Summary: A dog's best friend is his mage. And vice versa.  A series of random drabbles of no particular chronological order centered around Sabhya Amell and Blossom. Rating 'T' for mild language.
1. First Impressions

_A number of scenes involving Sabhya and Blossom have been in my mind ever since they first appeared in 'Manners' & 'Recreation,' and I finally decided to go ahead and write them up as a collection of drabbles & vignettes. In the highly unlikely event I ever settle in to write an actual story with, you know, Chapters and Length I can always patch these in at that time. Meanwhile this keeps the Muse fed. _

_Dragon Age belongs to BioWare. [kowtows to the overlords]_

**1. First Impressions**

.o0o

Teagan rubbed his face as he watched the people of Redcliffe drift away from the Chantry steps, feeling the weight of the long night dragging at every muscle.

"How is it with you, Ser?" The Warden Sabhya spoke quietly. Teagan dropped his hand and smiled down at the little mage.

"Better than in many a night, and I thank you." He looked out across the village square, breathing deeply despite the pall of smoke and carnage. "We owe you and your companions more than we can ever repay."

As he waved off the Warden's deprecating protest, his gaze fell upon a massive shape enthusiastically worrying the remains of one of their late demonic undead adversaries.

"That must be your war-dog, yes? I've overheard numerous awestruck comments from the militia about the Warden's Mabari." The mage's face lit up.

"How very kind. Would you like to meet him?" When the Bann assented, Sabhya turned with a murmured, "Mind your ears, please," and, tightening his lips, whistled an astonishingly piercing blast.

The dog's head shot up in response, ripping off the corpse's leg in the process. He trotted toward the Chantry steps where his master and Teagan stood, absently bringing his prize along with the foot bouncing in the dust as though kicking in protest at the undignified treatment. The noble's eyes widened as the animal approached to sit alertly before them.

In a breed famous for size and power, this dog was simply monstrous. Next to the Warden, who barely topped 5', he looked like a pony. Assuming ponies would ever be gripping dismembered body parts in their jaws.

Moreover, despite Teagan's Mabari-mad Ferelden noble's bias, this was frankly the _ugliest_ dog he had ever seen in his life. The coat, a muddy brindle overlaid with a network of white scars, grew randomly in every direction, the resulting patchy grain having the appearance of an overused, moth-eaten doormat. The tail was easily double the standard length, and actually seemed to be thicker at the tip than the base: a club rather than the proper stub. The jaw was under slung, the upper lip rubbed bald where a fang customarily protruded. Either from birth or from injury one ear was deformed so that it was half the size of the other, and it was difficult to discern between wrinkles and scars on the face. Indeed, it was a testament to the dog's toughness that he had survived what were clearly some horrendous injuries, but still...he looked like a fist with eyes and teeth. And those eyes...One was a baleful yellow; the other blue. Not the stylish china blue Teagan had seen in some wolf hybrids, but a milky grey-blue that put one in mind of cataracts and corpses.

"My friend," Sabhya was addressing his dog, "this is Bann Teagan Guerrin." The Mabari glanced at him and back at the mage. "Ser, this is my dear friend Blossom." Teagan's eyebrows shot up and he turned with incredulous amusement to the Warden.

"Blossom?"

"Blossom," Sabhya confirmed, stroking the animal's head and smiling affectionately at his friend. The undead's boot, accompanied by a significant amount of decomposed flesh, slid off the leg with a slurping noise.

Shaking his head with a grin, Teagan turned back to meet the dog's unblinking stare. His grin froze.

Blossom held his gaze and, with no apparent effort, slowly bit completely through the leather clad femur in his mouth. The ends dropped with a thump and a splat, respectively.

Teagan swallowed.

So did Blossom.

Then he broke into a big, doggie grin and made a dart at Sabhya's face, thumping his clubbed tail and uttering a noise somewhere between a sneeze and a smoker's cough.

"Er. Take-" Teagan paused and cleared his throat to ensure he would not sound quite so much like a six year old girl. "Take some time." Much better. "When you're ready, meet me at the windmill. We have much to discuss."

Acknowledging the Warden's thanks and courteous farewell, Teagan strode up the hill, musing as he went.

"And whatever is in the castle thinks _it_ commands demons..."


	2. I'll Have a Word

**2. I'll Have a Word**

**.o0o.**

"Again with the drool?" Zevran folded his arms and regarded Blossom in mild exasperation. "We have discussed this before, have we not?"

Ignoring his interrogator, the Mabari sat and began scratching inside his ear.

"Has Blossom been getting into your pack?" Sabhya looked reproachfully at the dog who guiltily avoided his gaze by suddenly becoming intensely interested in the ear-gleanings on his claw.

"Mm. As I have said, it is not so much the break-in itself. As a professional I can appreciate the effort. It is, however, disconcerting to find my leathers looking as though the entire local population of gastropoda have been dancing _La Muñeira_ on them all night."

"I do apologize."

"No, no," Zevran waved carelessly. "It is of no matter." His eyes gleamed. "What a sad waste of material, though. I can think of much more interesting uses for copious amounts of saliva." He leaned toward the mage. "I would be happy to demonstrate," he purred.

"I'm sure Blossom would be delighted," Sabhya murmured back.

Zevran sighed.

"You are a cruel, cruel man, Warden."

Sabhya chuckled and patted his thigh for Blossom to follow.

"Be that as it may, I'll have a word with him."

**.o0o. **

"Ooo! Who's a good boy? Who's a hands- err. What a good boy! Come here, you good boy! Oh, you good boy, you good...good sweet Andraste, what have you been rolling in? No! Get back! Get ba- were you _eating_ it? – No! Back! I – urrlp!"

Sabhya stood and turned in concern as the bard rushed past with her hands clasped over her mouth.

"Leliana?"

Hurrying after, he caught up in time to hold her hair as she retched into a bush.

"I'm sorry," she moaned. "I know it's ...dogs...but- ohh," She gagged again.

Across the camp Blossom was heading for Morrigan's fire, only to make an abrupt right angle turn when the witch fired an ice bolt in his path.

Sabhya pulled an immaculate white handkerchief from his sleeve and helped Leliana wipe her face.

"It's all right," he said soothingly, "I'll have a word with him."

**.o0o.**

"No, I don't want to play. I'm tired and I'm hungry. Move, will you? I'm not going to throw that for you. Go pester Sten. I said no, I won't throw it. Will you move? I said-Argh! My _foot!_ You broke my _foot_! Sabhyaaa!"

"Alistair, what-! Here, sit down, please! What happened?"

"Your _dog_ threw his _rock_ on my _foot_! Seriously, what kind of animal thinks a five-pound chunk of granite is a toy?"

Blossom had recovered the rock and was meditatively juggling it with a faint clopping noise, tongue hanging out one side of his outstretched jaws. Sabhya's lips twitched and he reached for Alistair's injured foot, silver-blue mana pooling in his palm.

"You know he did it on purpose," Alistair grumbled.

"I'll have a word with him."

**.o0o.**

Sabhya was brushing the Mabari at a slight remove from the camp, downwind to avoid disturbing the others with the resulting cloud of short coarse hairs, while Blossom groaned and smacked his lips with pleasure.

"Blossom, about the rabbits in last night's dinner."

_Ngorm-wom-rom-ngom._

"Leliana and Morrigan each caught two, but when I was ready to add them to the pot there were only three."

_Awoom-mwom-ngom._

"No one else noticed, I believe, since it was a stew, but really, my friend, if you want more food I'll provide for you. You don't need to steal it."

_Hhrmm-ngom-rom-wom._

An outraged shout cut across the evening peace. Mage and dog looked up, then at each other. Sabhya sat back on his heels.

"You didn't."

_Whff._

"Not again. After the last time..."

"Warden!"

Blossom shook himself and departed, his casual demeanor belied by his increasing rate of acceleration. Sabhya sighed then stood as Morrigan approached in stony silence. She raised a finger to forestall his courteous greeting, held out her pack at arm's length and deliberately turned it over. The rabbit carcass, more than a little ripe after the day's hike, fell to the ground with a muffled plop.

Sabhya held out his hands in placation.

"Believe me; I'll have a word with him."

**.o0o.**

On his way back from a discreet visit to the privy pit, Sabhya tensed at the sound of something crashing toward him through the bushes, gathering frosty mist to his hands. Blossom burst into view and raced over, dropping what he was carrying and pressing himself against the back of the mage's legs.

There being no sign of immediate pursuit, Sabhya flicked the spell away and regarded the dog in concern.

"Blossom? What is it?" The Mabari whined and rearranged himself behind Sabhya, nearly knocking the man off his feet. "My friend, I- take care, please." His foot struck something that rolled slightly, and he bent to study it.

"A staff?" He picked it up. "This is Wynne's staff."

Realization dawned.

"She's been talking about turning you purple or giving you antlers, again, hasn't she?" Blossom whimpered and pressed his head into Sabhya's stomach. "She's only teasing. Never fear, my friend." He put his arm around the dog's neck, rubbing under his jaw comfortingly.

"I'll have a word with her."


	3. Due Reverence

_This was inspired by a couple of reviews and PMs (I tease because I love, my dears), and then Blossom grabbed it and ran._

**3. Due Reverence**

**.o0o.**

Leliana perched on a boulder warmed in the weak afternoon sun and checked her bow for signs of wear. The Wardens, accompanied by the dog, Zevran and Morrigan had gone to the nearby hamlet's Chantry to check the notice board and restock; Reverend Mother Hecuba's apiary and herbarium were of some local renown and the witch insisted upon selecting ingredients for her potions herself. Leliana hoped Morrigan would keep her acerbic comments to a minimum, as Mother Hecuba was known to be something of a martinet herself.

Dry leaves crackled and the bard looked up to see Blossom approaching. He ignored her greeting and stalked past, the very image of offended canine dignity. Puzzled, she watched as he made a beeline to Sten and sat, ramrod straight, with his back to the camp. She turned her gaze back down the trail.

The Wardens were in the lead; Alistair walked stiffly, face scarlet, and even Sabhya's customary serenity seemed ruffled. Behind them ... Leliana blinked. Behind them Zevran and Morrigan were laughing hysterically, staggering along in a camaraderie so uncharacteristic that she pinched herself to be sure she wasn't dreaming.

Ow. All right, then. She hopped off the boulder and went to meet them.

"What happened? What's going on?" Alistair and Sabhya glanced at each other. Leliana folded her arms. "Oh, please. Surely you aren't going to pretend all this," she indicated the cackling assassin and apostate, "is normal. And why is Blossom in a huff?"

Sabhya looked ruefully toward the Mabari and sighed.

"We were making conversation with Mother Hecuba while Morrigan and Zevran were looking over the herb stock, and she unaccountably persisted in thinking Blossom was a female."

"It's your own fault," cut in Alistair. "Calling him a girly name like that. If you had named him 'Fang' or 'Butch' this would never be an issue."

Sabhya turned his palm over in an indeterminate gesture, unwilling to debate an old discussion that clearly lead nowhere.

"Perhaps," he said diplomatically, "but surely you agree that when the only pronouns I use in reference to Blossom are 'he,' his,' and 'him' his gender shouldn't be in question?"

"Not...not to an autocratic Chantry stick who only hears what supports her own ignorant view," gasped Morrigan, struggling to regain her equanimity.

"How do you do, Pot, my name is Kettle," muttered Alistair under his breath.

"I heard that."

"People," said Sabhya in mild reproof.

"Why didn't you just tell her she was wrong?" Leliana asked, having a good notion what the little mage would say but determined to keep the story on track.

"I couldn't be so discourteous as to flatly contradict her in front of everyone like that," he said in surprise. Yes, she thought so. "Moreover, it would have been terribly embarrassing for her."

For some reason, this elicited renewed howls of laughter from Zevran and Morrigan, the elf bending over with his hands on his knees and Morrigan leaning on her staff, keening and pressing a hand to the stitch in her side. Alistair flushed a brighter red and Sabhya briefly shut his eyes as if asking for strength.

This was becoming surreal. Leliana surreptitiously pinched herself again. Ow.

"So what happened?" she persisted, burning with curiosity while in the back of her head the professional in her was taking notes on ways to string along an audience. Or not.

"Blossom started getting upset. Every time Mother Hecuba referred to him as 'she,' he'd yip, or growl, or whine." Sabhya paused, distressed to have let down his friend. Alistair picked up the narrative.

"Finally, Mother Hecuba said something like, 'She's a chatty girl, isn't she?' and Blossom got up, turned around and kowtowed. With his tail up. So she could see his, er, his everything."

Leliana realized her mouth was hanging open and she shut it with a pop.

"He _mooned_ her?"

"Really, if you think about it," Sabhya protested weakly, "it was quite a scientific way of addressing the misunderstanding."

"Sabhya. Your dog. Mooned. A Reverend Mother."

Cornered, the mage admitted defeat. "In a word," he sighed, "yes."

"And yet even that didn't work," mused Alistair.

"You what?"

"She thought Blossom was genuflecting to the statue of Andraste, and was so inspired she launched into an impromptu sermon on the spot. When she reached the line about our four-legged sisters, Blossom went over and did what boy dogs do."

"He..."

"He lifted his leg."

Leliana reeled in horror.

"He urinated on the image of Holy Andraste?" she choked, aghast.

"No, not at all, my dear," put in Zevran, smirking as he straightened and wiped his eyes. "But let us hope that the Reverend Mother has recourse to a competent laundry service."


	4. Better to Give

**4. Better To Give**

**.o0o.**

Sabhya delighted in giving gifts to his companions. Unsurprisingly for a man of such unfailing courtesy, when people spoke he invariably gave them his full attention; afterwards he remembered both what was said and - perhaps more importantly – what was left unsaid to draw deeply insightful conclusions about those around him. This had been a survival tactic his entire life: taught by Padre, fostered by his amah, honed throughout the years before and within the Circle and now as second nature as drawing breath.

As to the gifts, something would catch the mage's eye and strike a chord, that _this_ would surely have meaning for his fellow. A figurine for Alistair's collection ("They are _not _toys!"), tiny companions without fear of loss; the enduring beauty of jewelry for haughty Morrigan, ever protecting herself with harsh words and isolation; art with masterful brushwork for the philosophical Sten, the Qunari's world painted in lines as fine as any cameo; a pair of dainty, frivolous shoes for Leliana, nostalgic for a time at once both simpler and more complex than the present. (Two pairs of shoes, in fact, the second set accompanied by a stern admonition to Blossom that blue satin shoes, however appetizing, were under no circumstances to be considered a late-night snack.) It may have been his own sense of isolation or simply his inherent kindly nature, but seeing the recipients' appreciation, feeling he had touched them, never failed to give Sabhya as much pleasure as if they had given him a gift in return.

**.o0o.**

Blossom delighted in bringing gifts to Sabhya. Unsurprisingly for a dog bred with such aggressive intelligence, he thoroughly explored every area they visited and customarily returned with a remarkable variety of things ranging from clutter to the sublime. Frequently he brought utilitarian items such as branches of elfroot or deathroot, even health potions which Sabhya could only hope had not been needed elsewhere. Blossom once dropped a stone at his mage's feet, and, prompted by some impulse to take a closer look before throwing it for the dog, Sabhya discovered he was holding a high quality sapphire. On the outskirts of doomed Lothering the Mabari brought Sabhya a twisted root brimming with a surprising amount of power; the mage converted it to a staff and later presented it to Morrigan. Just inside the same town, Blossom had shown up with his face covered in mud from a recent excavation and proudly relinquished the prize he carried, a dirt encrusted bottle of vintage cognac. Sabhya still carried it in anticipation of finding exactly the right occasion to sample the exquisite spirit.

At the other end of the spectrum, Sabhya gravely thanked Blossom for a cake he brought and requested assistance in consuming it, having just finished supper. Blossom graciously inhaled the drool-soaked confection. And on one memorable occasion Sabhya was bemused to be presented with a dainty pair of silken pantaloons, which prompted Oghren's and Zevran's simultaneous suggestion that Blossom fetch the garment's former occupant. At Blossom's thoughtful look, Alistair hastily leaped to distract the Mabari with a thrown stick.

**.o0o.**

In the Denerim marketplace, Blossom had purposefully trotted away, followed by Sabhya's mildly fatalistic call of "Try not to frighten anyone, please." The mage's attention was then diverted by the conversation between Oghren and the merchant Gorim – the atmosphere between the two dwarves seemed equal parts hackle-raised tomcats and long-lost fraternity brothers, and Sabhya prepared himself to make peace should the former attitude prevail. Needlessly, as it turned out, and Gorim proved to be a wealth of useful information.

"Um, Sabhya..."

"Yes, Alistair?" Sabhya turned and followed the younger man's gaze. Evidently Blossom had brought him...

He blinked.

A small child was happily clutching the dog's tail with both hands. Blossom kowtowed and yawned excitedly at Sabhya with the sound of a rusty hinge practicing chromatic scales. Releasing his grip, the child pointed at Blossom and announced, "Puppy!" before smiling beatifically and thrusting two grubby fingers in his mouth.

Accompanied by the flood of incoherent cooing hiccups this elicited from Leliana, Sabhya's mind spun.

"Er...thank you, my friend. But, are you certain this is wise?" Blossom tilted his head questioningly. "We're constantly battling darkspawn, bandits and any array of foes," the mage explained gently. "The little one is unlikely to stay safe."

Blossom rumbled disconsolately and sighed. Sabhya stroked his head.

"Thank you for understanding. Shall we take him back home?" He looked to where the bard was now sitting in the dirt playing peek-a-boo with the toddler. "I'm sure Leliana will want to accompany us."

The Mabari sighed again and shook himself vigorously.

"Hey!"

Handing Alistair a handkerchief to wipe off the drool spatter – wondering in passing just how the dog managed every time to target solely the ex-Templar – Sabhya suggested he and Oghren wait for them in the Gnawed Noble, collected his charges and set off with Blossom leading the way.

Alistair scrubbed at his face.

"Blossom probably wanted Sabhya to throw the kid," he muttered sourly to Oghren.

"Uh-huh."


	5. Boundaries

_Many, many thanks to Nightsfury for suggesting a Blossom's-eye view of Greagoir. _

**5. Boundaries**

**.o0o.**

His Sabhya was distressed. The others in the pack were as clueless as ever, save perhaps the elf, but he could tell that his mage grew unhappier with every step that brought them closer to the vile lake in the distance ahead. Until he could identify and eliminate the threat to his mage's peace, though, all he could do was stick close and offer up an enticing rock every so often.

He followed when his Sabhya withdrew slightly from the group during a rest break and sat before him with furrowed brow. After a moment he raised a paw and pushed at the man's knee with a breathy whine. His Sabhya finally looked at him and smiled faintly.

"Am I worrying you, my friend?" Long fingers passed across his head. "Forgive me, please. I'm fine. I'm just..." The smile dimmed. "The thought of returning to the Tower...disturbs me. Far more than I had anticipated." Fingers stilled, his Sabhya stared bleakly at nothing. Then his mouth twisted wryly.

"Let alone the fact that I was hardly in anyone's good graces when Duncan conscripted me. Imprisonment in Aeonar or summary execution... they'll be simply delighted to see me."

He growled. Let them try to get past him.

"Ah, no, be calm, please. As a Grey Warden, by law I'm now beyond their control." A deep breath, released slowly. "I just need to keep reminding myself of that. I'll be fine."

Unconvinced, he rumbled and ground his teeth.

"We desperately need the Circle's aid, my friend, and we'll be in their territory. So unless we're attacked outright, I need you on your best behavior, please. No roughhousing, no aggression," a flash of genuine humor, "No inappropriate marking."

Huffing carelessly, he began to turn away, and his mage caught him gently under the chin.

"I mean it, Blossom," he said quietly. For a long moment, they held each other's gaze, and then Blossom squinted and flattened his ears submissively. The fingers turned and rubbed deliciously at _that_ spot on his throat, and he shut his eyes completely in rapture. "Thank you, my friend. All will be well." His master leaned forward to rest his forehead against his, and the Mabari slobbered comfortingly down his neck.

**.o0o.**

They crossed the polluted lake and approached the Tower, his Sabhya's hand on his back in an outwardly casual gesture. Only he could feel the tension vibrating behind the touch, the fingers stiff and resting with the delicate brittleness of a dried leaf.

Into the building itself, and into a crushing stench of blood and lyrium and fear and _wrongness_, and he could sense the shock and dismay compounding the pain his Sabhya already felt.

This was intolerable. Someone had to be held accountable.

_There. That one. _ Unmistakably the Alpha by his presence and the others' deference, and therefore responsible for all, the armored man reeked of exhausted rage and grief. Upon noticing their approach, the Templar glowered at his Sabhya with weary hostility, and the little mage stiffened.

Blossom understood the limits he had been set. He wouldn't overstep his bounds. But there were ways of delivering a message nonetheless.

**.o0o.**

_The animal wouldn't stop staring at him. _

Against the odds and all Greagoir's expectations, Amell and his motley party had emerged intact from the abomination-ridden pesthole his Tower had become, Irving and sundry other survivors in tow. Who would have guessed it of the undersized prodigy? The undersized prodigy turned renegade blood mage accomplice turned Grey Warden, he reminded himself. Evidently diversifying gave one an edge.

Where the _hell_ had he picked up that monstrous dog? Ugly as arse, but obviously a brute in a fight as evidenced by the flecks of gore on his coat. Well-behaved, too; in fact unnaturally so. Not a sound, not a bristle, not a motion – just looking.

_At me. Constantly._

The Knight-Commander glanced over to where Amell and his crew conferred with the First Enchanter, the Mabari sitting facing his way, and inadvertently met the parti-colored stare. He looked away, shifting uncomfortably.

_Maker's breath, that's unnerving._

Greagoir considered and quickly dismissed the thought of asking Amell to restrain his pet. What on earth could he say without sounding like a petulant child complaining about a sibling on a long wagon trip? "Ameeelll, your dog's _looking_ at meee!"

He turned slightly to put his back to the dog.

After a moment, he clenched his hands in his belt, certain he could feel twin blisters rising on the back of his neck.

_Bloody..._

He strode over to the Quartermaster's area, and under the pretext of examining the inventory couldn't help slanting a covert look. His convulsive grip crushed a pewter cup.

_Maferath's blue balls! Doesn't the dog ever blink? Is it part snake?_

To his infinite relief the Warden's group began moving toward the exit. Greagoir was surprised to see Senior Enchanter Wynne leaving with them, and snorted. One more thing to thank Amell for, taking the officious old biddy with- Damn it! The dog was still staring at him as it walked away! Didn't it even need to look where it was going?

The Mabari posed dramatically in the gateway, looking over its shoulder at him, before turning and quietly trotting out of view.

"Wheew...I wouldn't like to meet that creature in a fight."

"And wouldn't those eyes have thrown my grandmother into a tizzy. One yellow, one blue – she'd have been spitting between her fingers to avert the Evil Eye until she ran dry."

"Me, I was that close to throwing a Holy Smite its way."

The Knight Commander rounded viciously on the muttering Templars.

"A Smite. Really. It's a _dog_, you addled nincompoops," he snarled. "And since you seem to be recovered enough to be gossiping like a pair of senile fishwives I suggest you move your collective arse inside and begin cleaning up after the mess _we_ were so patently incapable of handling ourselves. Now!"

"Ser!"

"Yes, Ser!"

After the unfortunate Templars scrambled away, Irving wandered over to stand at his elbow, hands clasped behind his back and rocking on the balls of his feet. He was wearing the boots with the slightly warped soles, Greagoir noted, their familiar squeak almost surreal in its normalcy.

"A difficult time, my old friend."

"Yes."

_Squik. _

The First Enchanter studied a spider's web built high in the corner of the ceiling.

"So, I take it you tried a Smite on the dog?"

Greagoir folded his arms and breathed heavily through his nose, glaring at the great door.

_Squik._

"Did it work?"

_Squik._

_Squik._

"...No."

Irving seemed to find the dusty web utterly fascinating.

"How remarkable."

"Irving."

"Yes, my old friend?"

"Shut up. Please."

**.o0o.**


	6. Use As Directed

_Am I the only one who thought this? _

**6. Use As Directed**

**.o0o.**

The Ostagar Kennel Master checked on his patient yet again. Going downhill, poor bugger, he thought sadly. If that Grey Warden recruit couldn't come through and locate the particular flowering herb he needed he doubted the animal would last the night. What a sorry waste.

Strange, he mused, carefully setting a bowl of fresh water where the listless Mabari might reach it. The recruit wasn't at all what he would have pictured as potential Grey Warden material, small as he was. Not clanking with armor and blades like the rest of them, just loose linen trousers and some kind of split tunic or robe. And the staff, of course. For that matter he was nothing like what he'd come to expect in a mage, either. Certainly not like that one with the enchanted stick up his arse, what was his name? Ulgo? Sluggo? Uldred, that was it. Always looking like he just stepped barefoot in someone else's puke.

But the Warden recruit, now, was downright pleasant. No sooner had the Kennel Master requested assistance than the little man went straight into the pen, calmed the suffering beast with a few quiet words and slipped the hated muzzle on to prevent him from hurting himself or others in his pain. The recruit even used his magic first to heal the infected gashes in the dog's face, which until then the Mabari had refused to allow anyone to touch. Contrary bastard that you are, the Kennel Master thought, looking consideringly into the pen. Always have gone your own way. If you pull through this, maybe we'll see if you want to imprint on the recruit.

A polite cough sounded from behind the Kennel Master, and turning he was relieved to behold the subject of his thoughts.

"You're back! Did you find the flower in the Wilds?" The recruit was already unfolding a handkerchief, sparing a concerned glance for the dog.

"Is this what you need?"

"Yeah, that's it!" The taller man accepted the familiar red-streaked blooms delightedly. "This should fix him right up. I'll go make these into an ointment right away."

The mage's brows drew in slightly in puzzlement, then after another look at the Mabari called, "Er, I beg your pardon, please?" The Kennel Master turned back.

"Yes?"

"If I recall correctly, you told me that the poor fellow was ill because he had swallowed darkspawn blood."

"Yes, that's right."

"Then-please, forgive my presumption-I don't quite understand why you plan to make an ointment. If he ingested the poison, shouldn't the remedy be taken internally as well?"

The Kennel Master stared blankly at the Warden recruit, blinked in dawning comprehension and dug in his pouch for the recipe.

"Oh, unless you intended to apply it rectally?"

"What? No, I..." he muttered distractedly, while from the pen a menacing snarl said, _you're certainly welcome to try it_ as plainly as human speech.

The recruit waited patiently while the Kennel Master frowned at the creased parchment.

"May I see?" he suggested diffidently after a moment. "I have some small skill in this area. Unless it's a trade secr-ah, thank you," as the baffled man thrust the sheet at him in relief. The little mage perused the faded writing and nodded.

"This shouldn't be difficult to adapt. I could help you with it right now, if you like." He covertly glanced over at the Warden Commander's bonfire and smiled reassuringly at the Kennel Master.

The dog raised his head and blearily watched the men walk away.

"Now that you mention it," said the Kennel Master as he guided the Warden recruit to the kennel's simples-chest, "I've got this...condition...of my own."


	7. As Fresh As

**7. As Fresh As**

**.o0o.**

Alistair watched warily as Zevran approached to relieve him of his watch. He no longer exactly expected to wake up and find the elf had murdered them all in their beds, but hello: _assassin_. Sabhya seemed to trust him implicitly, but the mage was willing to trust just about anybody. However good a judge of character the other Warden might be, Alistair was reluctant to let bygones be bygones as yet. Having the distinct impression that Zevran was well aware and amused by his perfectly natural suspicion didn't help matters in the slightest.

"All quiet, Alistair?"

"Oh, the usual. Ogres, Emissaries, blight wolves, a stray dragon or two. Nothing worth rousing the camp over."

"And you cleaned up as well. How very considerate of you."

"That's what I'm here for." He paused as Blossom trotted past them in a businesslike manner, carrying a bundle with head held high. "Great, what's he gotten a hold of now?"

Zevran's eyes narrowed. "It appears to be an article of clothing."

As one, the men whipped around to verify that their respective possessions were blessedly unravaged and turned back in relief.

"What is it?" Alistair wondered. The Mabari was bouncing around some yards away, alternately tossing and shaking his prize.

"Trousers, I believe. They're small..."

"Sabhya's?" An errant breeze wafted past bearing the fragrance of stale liquor and body odor, and they felt their nostril hairs curl.

"Oghren's," they said in unison.

Arms folded, the two observed the dog's antics in silence, unconsciously mirroring each other's stance.

"I suppose someone should take them away from him."

"By all means, Alistair." Snake-strike quick, Zevran's hand flashed out to intercept a ballistic grommet sent flying by a particularly vigorous shake. Dropping it fastidiously, he recrossed his arms and inclined his head. "Be my guest."

"Oh, no, no. Not me. Besides, he likes you better."

"Surely not."

"He's already bitten me once. And don't get me started about rocks..."

"Truly? When and why would our faithful companion have been so ill-advised as to bite you?"

"Oh..." The ex-Templar rolled his shoulders. "It was before you," he glowered at the assassin, who raised an eyebrow and smirked faintly, "-showed up. Word of advice: don't get between Blossom and his food."

"One might almost take the animal for a Grey Warden."

"Yes, very funny. Ha, ha, this is me laughing."

Blossom dropped to one shoulder and rubbed his side along the aromatic garment, shoveling himself along with brisk pumps of his hind legs. Standing, he examined it intently before repeating the process on the other side.

"So, like I said, you should take them."

"My dear Alistair, since I find myself lacking a set of adamantium tongs with which to handle the dwarf's clothing, I for one am perfectly content in the knowledge that for once my belongings may pass the night without the attentions of our drooling friend yonder."

"Hm. Point taken."

They watched Blossom flop down to scrub his back luxuriously, groaning and kicking all four paws wildly.

"You know, considering what he usually finds to roll around in, this is pretty much an improvement."

"True."

"For the trousers, I mean."

"Indeed."

"_Hey! Who sodding stole my pants!"_


	8. Nemesis

**8. Nemesis**

**.o0o.**

"Here! This way!"

The party raced with desperate urgency down a side path which opened into a cul de sac. Sabhya and Morrigan dropped to their knees, dumping their packs and frantically digging through the contents.

"Alistair! You, Sten and Oghren: barricades, please!"

"Right!" Alistair shed his gauntlets and hurried to where the dwarf was pulling boulders loose from a rockfall. Sten was already tossing a large tree trunk across the trail.

"Leliana, find a vantage point, please. We need your eyes – let us know the moment you see signs of pursuit." The bard nodded grimly and sprinted uphill. "Zevran – poisons, antidotes – with us, please, we need your expertise."

"On it."

"Warden, I hate to admit it, but this isn't my strongest area of study..."

"Understood. Leave us your kit, please, and keep the men rejuvenated so they don't wear themselves out building the defenses."

"Very well."

"And Wynne..."

"Yes?"

"Please be ready to cast a shield barrier. _Buy us time_."

"I will." The elderly mage moved toward the grimly determined workers, her hands glowing crystal blue.

The distant frenzied barking, carrying on the unnaturally quiet air, suddenly cut short with an agonized yelp.

"No!" Sabhya started to his feet, and Morrigan seized a fistful of his tunic and yanked him down again.

"Warden, _focus!_ We knew this was going to happen," she snapped. "All we can do now is come up with a remedy." Sabhya met her eyes and nodded briefly, tension evident in every line of his small frame.

"You're right. Thank you."

"Here," Zevran, who had been sorting efficiently through the pile of supplies, spoke suddenly, "I may have something." The three leaned together and conferred rapidly.

Leliana glanced at their bowed heads and back down the track, listening as the faraway 'ki-yi-yi' approached. She loosened her grip on her bow long enough to wipe the sweat from her palm and tried to swallow her fear.

The land was twisted and sickened by the Blight. Giant spiders, blight wolves, bereskarn: the natural world was rending itself like a man clawing a rash bloody. But this was something infinitely more horrifying than any ten Broodmothers, something no sane person could face with equanimity.

Mephitidae causarius.

Blight skunk.

_Maker help us all._

* * *

_A/N: Inspired by a perfectly innocent comment from roxfox1962 concerning skunks and the probable dearth of tomato juice in the Ferelden wilds. Take a bow, my dear. Or hide your face. Whichever you deem more appropriate._


	9. Questions

**9. Questions**

**.o0o.**

"Before you go, there is something I must ask."

Sabhya inclined his head politely and waited for the Guardian to continue.

"I see that the path that led you here was not easy. There is suffering in your past – your suffering, and the suffering of others." Pausing, the Guardian seemed to turn over the pages of the mage's life, and settled on a recent chapter.

"Jowan was discovered by the templars. You were helping him.

"Tell me, do you think you failed Jowan?"

Sabhya went still as the familiar myriad recriminations, motivations and might-have-beens resurfaced and clamored for attention in his mind, many of which he had yet to come to terms with and none of which he was prepared to air. Not to a strange representative of a religion not his own, and certainly not in such an open venue. For a long moment he studied the ancient paladin while the torches popped and wavered.

"If I may ask, is permission to proceed contingent upon my reply?"

"You may pass regardless."

"Then I am sorry, I respectfully decline to answer."

The Guardian looked mildly disappointed, but responded peaceably. "Very well. You know your own heart."

"One wonders why you are afraid to answer such a simple question," Wynne interjected spitefully. "Perhaps your reticence says more than you ever could."

Sabhya whipped around.

"_Simple!" _he snapped. Everyone gaped at the harsh tone, as astonished as if the gentle little man had suddenly defecated in public. Wynne thinned her lips and returned Sabhya's angry look with hostility. Disconcerted, Alistair began babbling.

"Oh, so now you've got me curious about how you really fee-" He was cut off by the simultaneous impacts of Leliana's and Morrigan's palms against the back of his head.

The exchange went unnoticed by the two mages, the air between them literally becoming charged as they locked gazes. Blossom looked from Sabhya to Wynne and rose slowly to his feet, silently curling his lip.

The elderly woman's eyes shifted, and Sabhya visibly forced himself to relax.

"_All_ questions are simple, Senior Enchanter Wynne," he said tightly and turned away. "It's the answers that get complicated."

* * *

_._

_note: All dialogue other than Sabhya's and "You may pass..." is from the game._


	10. On the Call of Duty

**10. On the Call of Duty**

**.o0o.**

Alistair gloomily watched Blossom race after the stick Sabhya had obligingly thrown.

"It's just that..." He sighed, booting a pebble as the two men resumed their progress across the courtyard. Sabhya looked at him in quiet sympathy and waited for him to continue.

"Doesn't what _I_ want ever matter?"

"Of course it does."

"Really? Could have fooled me." The younger man's voice had a bitter edge and he scooped up the branch the returning Mabari dropped expectantly at his feet. "Seems more like I just got volunteered for the dirty job no one else wants." Muscles bunching, he hurled it away with Blossom in hot pursuit.

"I know this can't be easy for you."

"Huh."

"Truly, I do. I also know you're more than capable of handling it, that we – that I – depend upon you."

"You're just saying that to make me feel better about it."

"Alistair." Sabhya met his eyes seriously. "Have I _ever_ lied to you?"

"No. No, you haven't."

The little mage touched his shoulder. "I'm not about to start now."

Abashed, Alistair grasped the chair leg Blossom was offering, and flung it after a brief struggle for possession.

"I know. I'm just, well, scared. There, I said it. Some tough guy, huh?"

"That only goes to show you're being sensible." Sabhya smiled. "Really, it would be of more concern if you were actually eager for it."

Alistair snorted. "No fear of that." They turned the corner in companionable silence and came to a stop.

"You won't just walk away once I get started?"

"I won't abandon you, my friend. This is on me as well."

"I still think _Sten_ could do a better job than I could."

Sabhya chuckled. "_Pashaara._"

Blossom trotted around the corner and skidded to a halt, the fence post he was dragging splintering in his teeth at sight of the waiting tub filled with soapy water.

"Right, then," said Alistair, rolling up his sleeves with jaw set in renewed determination.

"Let's do this."


	11. Ailurophilia

_My sincerest apologies..._

**11. Ailurophilia**

**.o0o.**

Zevran held up a hand for silence from his position on point and indicated the room ahead. Through the open door came the sound of a little girl chattering and giggling, incongruous to the point of absurdity in the dank, wraith-infested cellar. Alistair and Sabhya exchanged glances and moved to join the assassin.

Entering cautiously, they beheld an open space paved with elaborately worked brass tiles. On the near side sat the little girl, presumably Amalia, talking nonsense to a large, orange cat which regarded her with complacent feline hauteur.

Sabhya cleared his throat.

"Forgive me for interrupting, but are you Amalia?" he began. "Your fa-"

There was a streak of brown fur followed by a wet crunch.

"Kitty!"

"Blossom!"

"Ew!"

Sabhya rested his hands on his hips and looked reproachfully at the Mabari unrepentantly gripping the limp bundle of ex-cat in his jaws.

"Blossom, what have I told you about cats and self-control?"

With the sound of a toy bladder abruptly deflating, the pathetic, orange-furred feline carcass morphed into a voluptuous, lavender-skinned desire demon carcass.

"Ah, then again...er, yes, well done."

After a startled cross-eyed glance at his unexpectedly humanoid mouthful, Blossom sat with a self-righteous air of "I meant to do that."

"Where's Kitty?"

_.oOo._

Upon exiting the room, Amalia darted ahead, closely followed by Sabhya and Blossom, who triumphantly carried one of the demon's horns. The mage, who had with difficulty persuaded the dog to leave the majority of the demon's corpse behind, was attempting to strike a balance between praise for taking down a dangerous foe and reminder of the value of restraint vis-à-vis other peoples' cats and frankly finding it heavy going in face of the current evidence.

"Do you know," Zevran said thoughtfully to Alistair, "I am vividly reminded of the evening I spent with the Duquesa de Scarla."

"Why? Oh, wait, let me guess: 'She was a veritable demon in bed,' right?"

"Ah, my friend, you cannot begin to imagine."

"I don't want to hear it."

"Indeed, quite the extraordinary mouthful of pu-"

"Not listening! LA-LA-LA-LA!"


	12. Graffito

_Edited to squee uncontrollably: The same day this chapter was published, Tyanilth did me the honor of granting a certain undersized Amell__ and his Mabari a cameo appearance in Chapter 32 of 'The Hourglass,' which is one of the best LoghainxF!Cousland tales out there. Really, I can't recommend Tyanilth's writing highly enough - if you aren't familiar with it you're missing something special. And by the way, Blossom is evidently as badly behaved in whatever universe he finds himself. :D_

* * *

**12. Graffito**

**.o0o.**

"What was that all about?" Leliana joined Sabhya and looked curiously after Wynne, who was heading for her tent with the brisk pace of a proselytizer having completed a mission.

Sabhya finished buckling Blossom's collar and the dog shook himself thoroughly.

"The Senior Enchanter," he replied, giving his friend a pat, "was being kind enough to express her concern-"

"At great and painstakingly detailed length," put in Zevran.

"-over the fact that Blossom has a propensity to be fairly uninhibited when he marks territory." Sabhya concluded, nodding in acknowledgement to the assassin. Leliana wrinkled her nose.

"Well...granted it's not the nicest thing to see, but after all he's a dog; it's not like he isn't housebroken."

Sabhya smiled at the bard and spread his hands in resignation.

"She does kind of have a point, though," Alistair said. "I mean, does every tree, every fence, wall, and statue have to get watered? And so, so _extravagantly_? Remember that Legionnaire in the Deep Roads? He was convinced someone had been writing runes from some strange language on the walls and that it was evidence supporting some rumor going around about intelligent Darkspawn."

Leliana began giggling uncontrollably.

"Oh, you laugh, but I didn't know where to look."

"Really, my friend, you are a fine one to talk," said Zevran, buffing his nails on his jerkin and glancing up slyly. "I seem to recall some extravagant writing of your name in the snow when we were traversing those hellishly cold Frostbacks." Alistair turned bright red.

"What? No, I... it's not the same thi-wait, you were peeking? You, you _peeker_!"

"I noticed you spelled it A-L-I-S-T-R. If I may make a suggestion, when I was learning my letters I carried a bit of paper so I could remember exactly how my name should look."

"So did I," commented Sabhya, his eyes twinkling.

"There, you see, Alistair?"

"_I know how to spell my name!"_

"Indeed?"

"I just...I ran out of, out of..."

"Ink?"

"Yes!"

"Ah, then it is simply a question of proper muscle control," Zevran said soothingly, "and the _pulpo_ will have an unending supply."

"I can control myself just fine, thank you. And I'm not having this conver-"

"But do you see, our profligate friend here never runs out of fuel."

_Hwrmff_. With a snort, Blossom began scratching under his shoulder in smug superiority.

"I am certain if you drink the right sorts of-"

"I said I'm not having this conversation! And anyway," Alistair gratefully leaped at the chance to redirect the topic which had somehow veered wildly out of control and appealed to Sabhya. "That's the point, right? He doesn't really need to mark everything, does he?"

The little mage ruefully passed his hand over his head.

"In all honesty, Alistair, I'm just grateful if he targets something inanimate."

Pause.

"Okay, point taken."

_.oOo._

"_By the Stone, here's another one!" _

"_There must have been dozens of the blighters!"_

"_We've got to make copies and take them to the Shaperate!"_

_.oOo._

* * *

_A/N: Yes, well...the lesson to be learned here is never to underestimate the hazards of resorting to a random word generator prompt for inspiration. "Graffito" forsooth! _


	13. Conversations in Antivan

**13. Conversations in Antivan**

**.o0o.**

Zevran seated himself next to Sabhya, facing away from the fire to preserve his night vision, and accepted the cup of tea the mage offered.

"_Salud y pesetas." _He clicked his mug against Sabhya's.

"_Tetas y galletas," the_ little man responded, straight-faced, and sipped demurely as Zevran hurriedly set down his cup to cover a snort of laughter.

_.o0o._

It had become something of an evening ritual, as much as the irregular lifestyle permitted, beginning shortly after Zevran joined the Warden's group. Where most of the party viewed the assassin with justifiable suspicion, Sabhya had made a point of joining him on watch, either engaging in quiet conversation or simply standing in companionable silence. The mage's only response to Alistair's frequent protests (really, the lad must think he was deaf) was a firm, "I trust his word, Alistair. If you cannot do the same, I understand, but I must ask that you please trust in mine at least."

Perhaps a week later, Sabhya had asked diffidently whether he would object to conversing in Antivan during their watch. Surprised, Zevran shrugged and assented.

"Are we to discuss deadly secrets so that none may understand? I am impressed by your resourcefulness." Sabhya looked distressed.

"Ah, no, please don't misunderstand me. Certainly if the others are in earshot we should speak so all can understand. I just..." He trailed off, unspoken thoughts passing across his countenance like the shadow of a bird in flight. The elf looked at him questioningly.

"I'm being foolish, I know," the little mage said softly, almost to himself. "It's just been so long since I've heard the tongue spoken. Longer still since I last spoke it myself. It would be...I was very small..." He refocused on Zevran, who stood some three inches taller than himself, and his eyes creased in self-deprecating humor. "Even smaller than now, believe it or not."

Initially Zevran's motivation was self-preservation alone: to stay in the good graces of the Warden while gleaning any knowledge about him that might be of use. Judging by the occasional juvenile speech mannerism, it was indeed likely that the mage had stopped speaking Antivan as a child. Far more intriguing, though, were the blurred sibilants and softened consonants – a distinctly upper-class pattern as opposed to the staccato street patois – an observation Zevran filed away for future consideration along with the faint, wholly unfamiliar lilt that defied identification.

After a couple of weeks, however, the assassin realized he was enjoying the conversations in their own right, and after some struggle with his professional conscience accepted the fact. It was pleasant to spend an hour or so hearing the music of his native Antivan, like the patter of rain on a stream compared to that of Ferelden's boots stomping through mud. And Sabhya was different during the conversations, somehow. Not drastically so, nothing one could point at, but different even so. No less polite than ever. Less guarded, perhaps? More relaxed? Not precisely, but something like. (_Happy_, something whispered in the back of Zevran's mind.) He was not unaware of the lopsided dynamic of the group in which it seemed the entire party took it as a given that Sabhya heard and understood all of their problems. Never once had Zevran witnessed anyone other than the dog offer the reverse; if merely speaking in another tongue offered something in return, well, it was minor enough.

.o0o.

"Would you mind if I asked you a question?"

"By all means." Zevran recovered his cup and took a swallow.

"Could you tell me a little about Antiva, please?" There was a wistfulness in Sabhya's voice that struck an answering note in the elf, which he covered in the extravagance of his reply.

"_Verdad?_ And of what shall I speak? Shall I speak of the warm sun, of the gentle rains, of the flowers that are always in bloom? Shall I speak of my native city? I hail from the glorious Antiva City, home to the royal palace. It is a glittering gem amidst the sands, my Antiva City." He looked sidelong at the little mage. "Did you come from someplace comparable?" he asked delicately. _It would explain the accent._

The Warden smiled. "I am from no glittering gem, no."

_Ah, well, it was worth a try. _"No? That is a great pity. If you were, then you would surely spend as much time boasting of it as I do." Boast he did, describing the sights and sounds of the city to his attentive companion, and as he did he felt a rising nostalgia.

"Do you know," he said thoughtfully, "what is most odd? For all its wine and its dark-haired beauties and the lillo flutes of the minstrels...I miss the leather the most."

"I presume that is not a euphemism."

Zevran laughed, acknowledging the hit. "Not _this_ time, no. No, I mean the _smell_. For years I lived in a tiny apartment near Antiva City's leather-making district, in a building where the Crows stored their youngest recruits. Packed in like crates." He nodded as Sabhya proffered the kettle, and held his cup steady for the refill.

"I grew accustomed to the stench, even though the humans complained of it constantly. To this day, the smell of fresh leather is what reminds me most of home - more than anything else."

Sabhya set the kettle down, nodding in understanding as he prodded the fire with a bit of stick.

"The things that will evoke a memory...a smell, a fragrance..." The little mage trailed off, contemplatively rolling the stick's tip in the dirt to extinguish a tiny flame.

"I remember sitting next to the plaza fountain in the summer as the days came to an end. The bricks would be giving up the heat the sun had beaten into them, and the warmth bore the scent of dust and adobe and damp where the fountain always splashed. That is the smell of summer for me." The stick began tracing idle curves in the dirt.

"There was a wrought-iron gate, all elaborate arcs and twists and spikes. I remember pretending the shadow it cast was a marvelous creature of fancy, and as the sun sank and the shadows lengthened I would watch my creature stretch its neck and its legs, longer and longer, reaching for where I sat until we both disappeared into the summer-scented dusk."

"And what was your fanciful creature? A dragon? A mabari? Ah, a griffon, of course!"

Sabhya laughed softly.

"That would have been nicely prophetic, would it not? But no, it was merely something borne by the sun and a childish imagination."

Zevran glanced upward. "Speaking of childishness, I believe I can hear young Alistair preparing to take over the watch. Go on ahead, my dear Warden. I must not deprive him of the pleasure of attempting to glare a hole through my hide."

"I am sure he will come around in time." Sabhya smiled reassuringly as he stood and stretched. _"Buenas noches, compadre."_

"_Duerma bien." _The assassin watched the mage skirt Blossom's recumbent form and disappear into his tent. As he tossed the dregs of his tea into the fire, his eye was caught by the curving lines in the dirt.

If he allowed his imagination to work with the writhing shadows, it looked like a black bird flying free.


	14. Checkmate

**14. Checkmate**

**.o0o.**

Sten focused his gaze on the Mabari.

Blossom seized a likely-looking rock and stood ready.

Sten folded his arms.

Blossom juggled the rock a couple of times, then tossed it at Sten's foot.

Sten leaned forward and narrowed his eyes.

Blossom sat and waited expectantly.

Sten growled. "...rrr..."

Blossom tilted his head inquisitively.

Sten growled again. "Rrrrr."

Blossom stood slowly, rumbling deep in his chest.

_.o0o._

"Now what in the world do you suppose is going on over there?" At Zevran's bemused comment, Morrigan and Sabhya looked up from the jumble of herbs they were sorting and followed his gaze. The Qunari and the dog were facing each other, eyes locked.

"Grrrrr!" This from Sten.

A long, threatening growl in response.

"It appears to be a clash of intellects. 'Tis a wonder Alistair isn't there whining along in counterpoint."

Sabhya set aside a bundle of clary sage and stood, brushing his hands and frowning slightly.

"I can't believe that's altogether wise-" he began.

"HAARRRGH!" Sten roared.

A rising, vicious snarl, accompanied by a lunge, followed by a high-pitched yelp.

From Sten.

Sabhya broke into a run.

Sten was standing on his tiptoes, back arched and arms wide.

"You-are-a-true-warrior-and-worthy-of-respect-argh-argh-argh-"

"Blossom! Let go! _Now_, please!"

The Mabari released his opponent and grinned, tongue lolling and displaying rather more teeth than necessary as the Qunari gingerly settled back down.

"I'm so _very_ sorry. Are you all right?"

"I am fine."

"Are you certa- Sten, he drew blood! That needs to be checked!"

"No need."

"I'm afraid I must insist. Or would you prefer to have Senior Enchanter Wynne take a look?"

". . . . . . no, Kadan."

"Then after you, please."

"Yes, Kadan."

The little mage stood aside to allow the wincing giant to duck into his tent before following, then abruptly leaned back out to direct a Stern Look at Blossom and stop him in the act of lifting a triumphant leg over Sten's bedroll. The dog looked innocent, then as soon as the tent flap dropped turned and briskly kicked several scoops of dirt instead.

"Well, then, Zevran. Now you know a certain way to get an invitation into Sabhya's tent. I suggest you begin practicing it immediately."

"Mm, very tempting. But no; when the happy opportunity presents itself I believe I would prefer to have my pieces in one piece, as it were."

"But where is all that vaunted persistence?"

"My lovely Morrigan, is that an offer to practice?"

"Tchah! Does 'removed altogether' sound better than 'in pieces' to you?"

"It all depends upon what sort of technique you plan to employ, my dear."

"Go away, elf."


	15. Reach

**15. Reach**

**.o0o.**

The walls are mirrors, and Sabhya stands amongst the reflections, watching them quietly. He knows better than to meet his own eyes; instead he looks to the side, to the figures marching away in endless sequence.

_Desire is not merely about sex. _The voice purrs behind him, silky and feminine.

"I am aware, yes. Thank you." He raises his right hand and idly turns it, palm in, palm out.

_It is to yearn for what you have not._

Palm in, palm out, it creates a synchronized ripple of movement like water lapping at the shore.

_For what is out of your reach. _

His hand stills, fingers drooping.

_For what has abandoned you. _The voice is a rich baritone, accented and smooth. _I can come back, mijo._

"He never abandoned me." The mage slowly reaches out, watching as the myriad figures all reach as well – always away.

_For what has moved on without you. _An implacable older woman, steely but with a musical lilt. _I miss you, child._

"It was Amah's time." If he moves his hand just so, it creates the illusion of touching the reflection's shoulder, over and over and over.

_For what left you behind. _Jowan. Anxious, with a mercurial shift to sly humor. _I always look up to you, big brother._

"He did what he needed to do." Sabhya's hand closes, grasping air and promises, equally insubstantial.

_A chime of jewelry, a whiff of scent._

"Leave me, please." The irony of the command fills his mouth like sawdust, and the Demon laughs at him in as many voices as there are images before falling silent.

He (all of them) reaches out (reach away) with his left hand in the sickeningly oppressive quiet, and this time he encounters a rough solidity which he clutches in astonished gratitude. The mirrors thin like frost under a heated copper and fade away.

.o0o.

Sabhya blinks to clear his vision and gain his bearings after the transition from the Fade to reality. They had stopped for a rest break a few days out of Lothering; he must have dozed off. Blossom lies next to him, uncomplaining under the death grip Sabhya has on his shoulder and regarding the mage steadily.

Sabhya loosens his hold with a conscious effort but leaves his hand in place, allowing the warm strength to ease his shaking. He looks into the dog's intelligent eyes, one the lambent yellow of a candle's flame in the dark, the other the greyish blue of an open winter sky, and raises his other hand to touch the massive head.

"I'm all right," he murmurs, and his new friend leans into his palm. "All will be well."

For the first time in years, he allows himself to believe it.

* * *

_A/N: This was inspired by imagery that comes to my mind upon reading Ventisquear's stunning 'Noblesse Oblige.' _


	16. Pull

**16. Pull**

**.o0o.**

"What is the purpose of this?"

With a 'tsk' at the poor security on Eamon's estate, Leliana closed the chest she had just broken into and joined Sten. A bored Blossom padded after her.

"It's a bell pull. How civilized!" She eyed the tasseled bit of cloth in surprise.

Sten frowned.

"There is no bell."

"No, not in here. It runs to the servants' area, so if you want something you can pull this and a bell labeled for this room rings to summon someone."

"I see." The warrior considered.

"It's awfully short, though." Leliana leaned closer. "Oh, it's gotten all bunched up. Maybe the maid tucked it up when she was cleaning." She picked delicately at the wad of fabric where it disappeared into a crevice near the ceiling. "Or maybe mice were pulling at it. Here we are." The cloth hung lower by several inches when she finished.

"Would this be used to request food?"

"Of course."

"I would like cookies." Sten announced. Blossom sat up attentively with a _whfff _of agreement. The bard laughed.

"You always want cookies."

"Yes. What is your point?" The Qunari folded his arms and regarded her impassively.

"Merely an observation." Leliana giggled as she reached up and tugged lightly.

Nothing happened. She made a moue and tried again. "I think it's broken. Oh well, we can go find the kitchen."

As she turned away Blossom leaped and seized the cloth, dropping his full weight against it.

_Clang!_

"Oh, good boy!" Leliana beamed.

Growling excitedly, Blossom whipped his head from side to side.

_Clang! Clang!_

"That should be fine-"

Blossom braced himself and yanked repeatedly in a series of quick, sharp jerks.

_Clang-clang-clang-clang-clang-clang-_

"They're going to think we're horribly impatient-"

The Mabari abruptly sat down as the cloth gave up the unequal struggle and ripped.

"Oh, dear..."

They watched the dog prance about the room, vigorously shaking his trophy.

"When will the cookies arrive?" asked Sten.

**.o0o.**

On the floor above, a Guardsman watched owlishly as his fellow groaned and rolled to a sitting position, struggling to detach the helmet that had been jammed over his face.

"Bunworth?"

"...Ffflnnl..."

"I'll just ask mum to make your next scarf a good deal shorter, then, shall I?"

"Yff, plff."

* * *

_Random word generator prompt: "Pull"_


	17. The Telling of Tales

_Fan art! [flails and runs in excited circles] My first ever! Utterly awesome WellspringCD has done this adorable portrait of Blossom: _**wellspringcd . com / blossom. html **_Thank you so much, WellspringCD!_

_The link is also on my profile if you don't want to mess with removing FF-placating spaces. _

**17. The Telling of Tales**

**.o0o.**

There was a respectful silence as the old gaffer took a pull from his tankard and smacked his lips like a meditative rabbit.

"Ahh, good for what ails ye, that is. Nobbut it holds a candle to the brew in _my_ day. . . but, to resume." He waited through the rustle of collective anticipation from his fellow patrons and continued.

"So there I were, not a sennight agone. Just coming on twilight it were, with the light going grey and the rooks all a-brawl in the treetops before settling in to roost. I'd unhitched Dobbin and given the fellow a rub and feed, and I were heading to unload the cart when I were seized by the sure certainty _something_ were about. Something _unnatural._"

His voice lowered and the men leaned forward, listening intently.

"Air were still as stone, but could hear puffs of wind nonetheless, and the rotting stench of a dozen untimely opened barrows rose to me nosethrils. Aye, eldritch horrors were abroad, and me with naught but a knife and the nails in me boots. I'm an honest man, I am, and I'm not ashamed to say me hair were a-standing on end when I peered into the yard. And what do you think I saw, a-lurking there by the cart?" The wizened old man paused and looked around at his rapt audience.

"The Cú An Boladh!" He barked, slamming his tankard on the table. Everyone leaped like scalded cats, and Annie, caught in the act of refilling the rounds, squeaked and narrowly avoided dumping her pitcher into the nearest lap. The young scholar in the group, recovering from the shock, soundlessly repeated the name and frowned in perplexity.

"Aye! The Cú An Boladh! Taller than a draft horse and twice as broad, it were, with hide made of barren earth itself! Cavernous mouth a-yawning wide with triple rows of slavering fangs longer than me hand! Tongue of flame, and eyes a-rolling and a-blazing fire in colors from yellow to blue and back again! I were that certain my time had come. But-" A pause to refresh, surrounded by open mouths and wide eyes.

"As luck would have it, the cart were still loaded up with me weekly provisions, and we all know the fey folk find cream and spirits well-nigh irresistible. So instead of carrying off me soul, the Cú An Boladh seized on a firkin of good red ale and vanished away, leaving only the whiff of the grave and-"

"I've never heard of the Cú An Boladh," interrupted the young scholar, demonstrating that education most certainly did not beget wisdom. "Are you sure you aren't making this up?"

"Far be it for me," said the gaffer after a chilly silence, "to pretend I know anything more than someone of _your_ wealth of years and experience." His eyes narrowed. "Next you'll be a-saying the Chirpy Burpy Cheap Sheep doesn't exist."

"Shh!"

"Quiet!"

"Do you want all our flocks eaten?"

"Shh! It'll hear you!"

Quelling the young scholar with a shower of head-slaps, the patrons assured the offended elder that the youth was merely a passing idiot whose brain had been damaged from all the ill-advised learning and begged him to continue, topping up his tankard until it overflowed.

"Well," huffed the old man after a suitable interval. "As I were a-saying, the Cú An Boladh vanished away, leaving only the stench and, as it happens, _this!" _ He plunked a heavy bundle onto the table and whisked away the covering.

There was a short silence.

"A rock?" Someone spoke hesitantly.

"Ah, it's a rock _now,_" the gaffer said proudly, "but _before_ it were the miasma a-roiling within the creature's very jaws, made harmless at the touch of our good mortal ale."

Nodding wisely, everyone agreed there was nothing a good ale couldn't improve, and proceeded to test the theory with another round.

**.o0o.**

_"Don't you ever wonder where Blossom finds all these things he brings you?"_

_"Leliana, I've discovered it's generally best not to think too hard about it."_

_"Ha! Red Ale! Don't be selfish, Warden, pass the sodding bucket around!"_

_._

_.o0o._

_A/N: Cú An Boladh roughly translates to "Hound of the Stench." Sorry, Blossom. The Chirpy Burpy Cheap Sheep is from 'Father Ted.'_


	18. Fear

_A combination of a semi-response to Reyavie's Halloween challenge on CMDA plus a random word prompt "Fear."_

**18. Fear**

**.o0o.**

Alistair fought free of his bedroll and into wakefulness, images of the Archdemon's hordes howling and echoing in his mind.

_That __was __a __bad __one. _He sat for a moment with his head in his hands, attempting to reconcile adrenaline with exhaustion, and then gave it up as a bad business. _Might __as __well __get __some __air. __I__'__m __certainly __not __getting __any __more __sleep._

He lurched to his feet and ducked out of the tent, welcoming the cooling night breeze. Some yards away he could see Sabhya and Zevran in quiet conversation by the fire, with Blossom lying couchant near his mage. As Alistair hesitated, uncertain whether to interrupt, Sabhya looked up and waved him over.

The little mage's welcoming smile faded to a look of sympathy as he took in the younger man's drawn appearance.

"Nightmares?" He patted a nearby rock in invitation.

Alistair shrugged and sat. "Maybe we should call them, 'Blightmares'? Seeing as it's one of our extra special Grey Warden perks." He ran his hands through his hair and rubbed his neck as Sabhya, with an appreciative chuckle, began to brew a fresh pot of tea.

"One has to wonder about life at Weishauppt," Zevran remarked. "A dormitory full of sleeping Wardens must emit quite the symphony of intriguing moans and groans. Who could say what really transpires in the dark? 'Why, yes, Commander, I was having a nightmare. That is to say, my friend here and I both were.'"

"Very funny," Alistair said tiredly. "Not to mention a little creepy." He propped his forearms on his knees, letting his hands hang loosely as he watched a ribbon of blue flame worming along the length of a stick. "Huh. Creepy . . . haven't thought of that in a while. . ."

"What's that, Alistair?" Sabhya asked after a pause. Blossom stretched, yawning prodigiously, and the mage disengaged a flailing paw with a pat.

"Hm? Oh, when I was a kid, I . . . you know, living in the stable wasn't so bad." He spoke absently, eyes on the fire. "I liked the horses. They were warm, and solid, and they'd always put their heads over the stalls and point their ears at me like they were glad I was there. It was nice. Except there was this time I ran an errand to the tanner when he'd just rendered some nag's carcass and stuck the skull out in the yard on a post to dry out. There's something, I don't know, _spiky_ about a horse's skull when it's not wrapped up in, well, the head. Without those big, soft lips the teeth look more like fangs, and those empty eye sockets are huge and stare right through you like you're nothing. And someone with a weird sense of humour had tied a bunch of blue ribbons at the jaw, like a fancy bridle. Death dressed up for a festival. Creepy."

He nudged the stick to make the ash fall. "After that, sometimes I'd dream that the horses would peel away their faces, like taking off a jacket, and it would be _horrible_. Or at night I'd wake up just _knowing_ that thing was there in the big loose box, that if I went near it would put its naked bony face over the stall and look at me with those empty eyes and fluttering ribbons, and I'd practically pee myself at the thought. Even now I catch myself looking twice into the dark corners of an empty stall." He glanced at the other two men. "Pretty stupid, huh?"

Sabhya shook his head in denial as Zevran replied in all seriousness, "My friend, speaking as a professional, that is not such a bad habit to cultivate, regardless of why you began it." Alistair eyed the elf, wary of mockery, and shrugged one shoulder.

"The most innocuous things can have an extraordinary impact on a child." Sabhya hesitated fractionally and continued. "Before I learned how to read, I would flip through every book I could get my hands on. Partly I was pretending to be grown up and reading, partly I was looking for whatever pictures I could find. One day I came across a print of a Chantry allegory of the sins of humankind. It was a woodcut in an older Anderfelian style, stark, exaggerated lines and crowded with images. For some reason, one particular thing in that entire busy scene caught my eye: a man, or what was left of a man, trapped in a prison cell. His limbs and torso were unnaturally attenuated; his tendons stood out as though he'd been flayed. His mouth gaped and his eyes, overlarge and sunken, streamed with black tears. He clung with one hand to the bars with the other outstretched in a desperate attempt to reach- what? A key? Food? Somebody? _Nothing_ was near.

"It gave me screaming nightmares for a week." He picked up his cup and rotated it in his hand.

"It also left me with an inordinate terror of being imprisoned. Not of closed spaces, but the idea of being locked up in a cell, in a cage . . ." A muscle jumped in his jaw, and he added with forced lightness, "Well, there you are. It might be best not to pass that on, please." Blossom licked his hand and Sabhya's countenance genuinely lightened as he smiled at his friend.

Zevran looked into his own cup and thought of barred Tower windows, recalling with a new understanding Sabhya's intense reaction upon discovering his young friend in the Redcliffe dungeon.

"You know," Alistair pointed out, "this may not have been the best career choice for you. Considering the whole wanted for treason thing."

"Unfortunately Duncan was unable to give my curriculum vitae a thorough once-over beforehand," Sabhya replied dryly. "But let's be sure to include a note on our recruitment posters from here on out."

"Heh."

A log collapsed in a shower of sparks.

"Maria Enganxa." Zevran spoke quietly. Alistair looked blank, but Sabhya stirred in recognition after a moment's thought.

"Maria Enganxa," the assassin repeated, acknowledging the mage with a nod. "You would say, Maria of the Hook. Before the Crows bought me, one of the whores took great relish in recounting the tale of Maria Enganxa to me and to the other children. The most powerful of water-women, she of the golden hair and emerald eyes, who dwells in the deepest, darkest wells and cisterns. She who always carries a hook in one hand, with which she catches small children around the neck and pulls them into her well, never to be seen again. As there was a large cistern in the basement of the whorehouse, it frequently fell to me to fetch water and a terrifying experience it was. The cistern was blacker than night and might as well have been bottomless, and the air passing over it sounded like a woman whispering insanely to herself. I could never be certain whether the creaking I heard was that of the bucket I was lowering or of a body shifting, preparing to hook me around the neck and drag me into the darkness."

There was a short silence.

"Why am I not surprised that your childhood fear involved a beautiful, homicidal woman?"

"Ah, my friend, perhaps it is because women are a mystery to us poor men, and we must always fear the unknown. But it is true," Zevran said mournfully, "It is a terrible fear, and I must continually seek to combat it. As frequently as possible."

"Truly, you are a man of parts." Sabhya spoke solemnly.

"So I am told. Would you like to see them?"

"No! Sabhya, don't encourage him like that!"

The mage laughed. Blossom thumped his tail happily at the sound and shifted to lean heavily against Sabhya's leg, resting his head on the man's foot.

"So, what do you suppose Blossom's puppyhood fear was? Losing his toys? Getting stepped on?"

"Not enough room at the teats?"

"That's more one of yours."

"True."

Sabhya leaned forward and ran his hand over the rough fur.

"Perhaps," he mused, "he was afraid of being left alone." He fondled Blossom's ear as the dog sighed deeply and closed his eyes contentedly. "He's not so different from the rest of us, after all."

**.oOo.**

_._

_Alistair's fear is inspired by the Mari Lwyd of Wales. Maria Enganxa is a legend of Majorca._


	19. Fadescape

**19. Fadescape**

**.o0o.**

"Wouldn't you like to just lay down and . . . forget about all this? Leave it all behind?"

The growl bubbling in his chest was abruptly cut short as an unnatural exhaustion dropped over him like a weighted net, and he was asleep before he hit the floor.

.oOo.

This place was strange and wrong, and his Sabhya was missing. He raised his head high, but the air hung thickly and carried no information.

_"What do we do with it?"_

_"Here, try this."_

His ears swiveled at the whispers. Turning his head he saw a kennel master who chirruped and held a dripping haunch of venison out to him invitingly. Not a kennel master. It moved wrong, sounded wrong, and most obviously smelled wrong - of ichor and otherness. He ignored it and began to circle the area, casting about for a trace of his mage's scent.

_"Not hungry? Or not for food?"_

Something wearing the shape of a magnificent mabari bitch coyly presented itself to him. Moving wrong, smelling of ichor and otherness. He shouldered it aside in contempt, snapping irritably when it tried to fawn over him.

_"Play? __Hunt?" _The whispers were becoming impatient. The ball bounced disregarded into the mists, and he simply stepped on the rabbit that broke cover underfoot with a squeaky crunch of ichor and otherness.

_"Fine! __Stupid __animal__.__.__." _The whispers cut off.

He sat, brow furrowed as he considered. The gigantic demon made him sleep, and when he woke up his Sabhya and the others in the pack were gone and he was in this place. Therefore sleeping again should put things right.

And if not, well, he'd have spared himself some boredom.

After checking warily for more wrong-creatures, he turned around in place four times and settled down with a sigh.

.oOo.

"Blossom? Can you wake up?"

The beloved voice. Even as he opened his eyes he already knew the gentle touch and the scent - lyrium and herbs, stillness and caring - and he bounded to his feet with an excited yawing whine. They were still in this Wrong place, but his Sabhya was there and smiling at him with delight and relief.

"I'm glad to see you, too, my friend. I've been- no!" With a cry of frustration, his mage was enveloped in a shimmer of light, and vanished as he lunged forward in dismay.

He ground his teeth, enraged. Enough was enough.

Something needed to die.

"Oh, here I am, good dog! Did you miss me?" Wearing the shape of his Sabhya.

Smelling of ichor and otherness.

And stupidity.

His lips peeled back. This would do for a start.

**.oOo.**

_._


	20. Communicado

**20. Communicado**

**.o0o.**

"Enchantment!"

"Yes, you're quite right, the staff is rather too long for me. They generally are, I'm afraid."

"Enchantment?"

"Well, I taught myself to tailor the robes without damaging their properties." Chuckle. "I confess, it was in a large measure pure vanity. Between you and me, in an unmodified Circle robe I bore a disturbing resemblance to a partially melted candle."

"Enchantment."

"Thank you, how kind of you to say so."

"Enchantment."

"Now that you mention it, I wonder . . . "

"Enchantment?"

"Please, forgive the imposition, but with your expertise do you think you could modify a staff to suit my height?"

"Mm . . .enchantment, enchantment . . . "

"Or perhaps we could develop a viable alternative?"

"En-_chant_-ment!"

"Oh, now that's an intriguing notion . . ."

**.oOo.**

"Huh. Look at that. Must be all that talking to Blossom; only Sabhya could make sense of a conversation with Sandal."

"'Tis a greater wonder to me that he can make sense of a conversation with you."

"Yes, thanks. I actually saw that remark coming a mile away."

"Oh, I am all astonishment."

_"What if we . . ."_

_"Enchantment . . ."_

_"Yes, absolutely. Brilliant!"_

_"Enchantment!"_


	21. Wind

_A random word prompt 'Wind' which elicited four simultaneous & highly disparate images (this happens to me - see my piece 'Riot' if interested)._

**21. Wind**

**.o0o.**

* * *

**1. Breath**

Alistair sat with his head in his hands, swallowing against his queasiness and trying to ignore the sense that the ground was swaying ever so slightly. He could do this; Haven was only a short ways away. _And __if __any __bandits __show __up, __I __can __always __barf __on __them. __Yeah, __that'll __work __just __fine._

The pebbles crunched under a light step, and Sabhya sat next to him.

"This ought to help. Chew it, but don't swallow it, please."

Alistair sniffed the bit of dried root in wan suspicion before complying and popping it into his mouth. "What is it?" Not too bad. Kind of like anise and celery root.

"The Rivaini coral divers use it to enhance their lung capacity. I believe the same principle should work for altitude sickness."

"This is just embarrassing. Of course, _I'm_ the only one having problems." Sabhya touched his shoulder reassuringly.

"It's unpredictable, my friend. If it makes any difference, I'm fairly certain I saw Wynne giving herself a surreptitious rejuvenation."

"Huh. It kind of does, actually." He looked sidelong at his companion. "But you aren't having any issues?"

The little mage's eyes creased in humor.

"Alistair, my entire life tends to be an altitude issue."

**.oOo.**

* * *

**2. Flatus**

_Paarrp._

"Oh, for . . . Oghren, can't you save that for some other time?" Alistair fanned the air. "Like when we're not sharing a watch?"

"You know, pike-twirler, for someone who complains about girly dog-names, you act like a mighty big girl yourself."

"What? I do not!"

"Do too."

"Do not!"

"Prove it." Oghren rested his fists on his hips and grinned up at the young man. "We're both men here. You had the same glop for dinner as the rest of us. Or are you just going to hold it in like some prissy lady until you explode?"

"I- fine!"

Silence.

"I'm waiting."

"Give me a minute!"

_pfwee._

"Hah! Nice try, amateur!"

_Prraarrrp!_

The fire flared blue for a moment.

"Oh, yeah? Well, how about this-"

"What are you two arguing ab-?" Leliana had approached unnoticed with Zevran, and as Alistair began stammering incoherently she squeaked and clapped her hands over her nose. "Oh, Maker's _Breath_!"

"I sincerely hope not. If this is a sample of His breath," Zevran muttered, waving a hand, "it is no surprise He went into seclusion."

**.oOo.**

* * *

**3. Gears**

"Look! Look what I found in the Commons!" Alistair was grinning delightedly as he displayed his prize to Leliana and Zevran.

"A golem do- figurine?"

"This is different. Watch!" He twisted a button in the figure's back several revolutions, then set it on the floor.

_tictictictic_

The little feet worked up and down and the golem marched busily forward.

"Oh, how cute!"

"I admit, that is intriguing."

"Isn't it?" Alistair beamed. "Not magic, of course, since it's dwarf-made. It works on springs or something."

_tictictictic_

Blossom reared back at the toy's approach, then examined it suspiciously as it continued past.

"Ah, Alistair, you might want to-"

Snap!

"Hey!"

_tictictictic_

The little feet kicked helplessly from the corner of Blossom's mouth as the mabari happily avoided Alistair's grabs.

"Give that back! Come back here, you. Come on, drop it!"

Gulp.

"Aw . . . Blossom . . ."

"Oh, I'm so sorry." Leliana patted the dejected young man's hand. "But, well, he did swallow it whole. Maybe you can, um, recover it?"

"Yeah. No thanks. Somehow, I don't think that would be quite the same." Alistair directed a scowl at Blossom and headed for the door. "I'll just go see if there's one left and get another."

After the door not-quite-slammed behind Alistair, the other two looked at the dog, who returned their gaze indifferently and scratched thoroughly under his collar.

"Do you think it's still walking?" Leliana spoke after a thoughtful silence.

"If so, it gives 'bowel movement' an entirely new meaning, yes?"

**.oOo.**

* * *

**4. Flight**

Clad in trousers alone, Sabhya stands as far out as possible on the prow of the _Miravida, _gripping the rigging one-handed and bare feet secure against the wood. The impossibly blue water mirrors the sky to lend a dizzy, exhilarating sense of rushing through the air itself. He turns his face into the breeze, savoring the spray and the chill and the motion, feeling his spirit lift and spin like the companionable dolphins that swoop effortlessly through stray clouds of foam.

Zevran stands behind and to one side, ready to catch his Warden should he slip and enjoying the view - both of the trim body and of the look of sheer, exultant joy. He can see how every fiber of Sabhya's being yearns upward and outward, and in this moment he feels compassion that the mage never learned Morrigan's shape shifting magic.

Although, if he is honest with himself, he feels a measure of relief as well**.**

**.oOo.**


	22. Coulomb's Law

_A response to Cheeky Monkey Epiphany Sola Gratia's 'Love Potion Number Nine' challenge. _

* * *

**22. Coulomb's Law**

**.o0o.**

The little vial glowed against the tree stump's surface, the pink reflection casting a faint tint over the faces gathered around.

"So this old Rivaini peddler just _gave _it to you? Just like that?" Alistair asked for perhaps the fourth time.

"Not exactly," Sabhya repeated patiently. "As I said, she was knocked over by a cart. I helped her to her feet and gathered her belongings for her. In return she pressed this upon me, most insistently in fact."

"'A key to your heart's deepest desire,'" quoted Leliana, eyes shining. "It's like a ballad come to life." Morrigan cast her eyes upward and Oghren guffawed.

"And you just took it." Wynne pursed her lips.

"It would have been rude not to, Senior Enchanter. I did offer her a sovereign."

"Which she so graciously accepted," Zevran commented dryly. Sabhya shrugged.

"Why not?" The little mage picked up the vial and studied the rosy contents. "It's clearly worth far more than a single gold piece. I ran some tests on a sample; it's a powerful charm spell with a strong, hm, erotic element." He rolled the oddly warm glass between his fingers before setting it back down with a sigh. "I'm not altogether certain what to do with it now, though."

"I'll take it." Several voices chorused. At Sabhya's startled glance the group shuffled and eyed each other accusingly.

"What?" Leliana protested. "Who wouldn't want a love potion?"

"Administering or receiving?" Zevran put in. "It could make a great deal of difference."

"Huh. What would _you_ need it for, Ser Greatest Lover In All Antiva? Or is that all just talk?"

"Not at all, my young friend. One is always open to new experiences, however, some of which I would be delighted to share with y-"

"No!"

Leliana giggled. "It might make a change from licking lamp-posts, Alistair." The young man turned bright red.

"What! How . . . no, I . . . Sabhya, you went and told...?"

"Certainly not, Alistair."

"My dear Alistair, in spite of all your admirable characteristics, you are sadly incapable of keeping your voice down." Zevran raised his brows. "Now, if other portions of your anatomy suffer the same complaint, perhaps you _would_ be the logical recipient of this intriguing brew."

"I . . .guh . . .bwah . . .nargh . . .!"

"Hah! I don't _need_ any pansy pink juice to get some action. Old Oghren's juices work just fine on their own." The dwarf hesitated. "Although . . . Felsi, now . . . " He scratched under his beard thoughtfully. "Maybe with a lichen ale chaser."

"As the most experienced mage present, it's only proper that _I_ should take charge of this _substance_. " Wynne drew herself up. "I will of course exercise the best judgment as to its most appropriate usage." Alistair, still glaring at Zevran, missed the oddly proprietary look she bent upon him, but the others sidled a few uncomfortable inches away from the elderly woman.

"Thank you, Senior Enchanter Wynne," Sabhya said carefully. "I'll be sure to take your suggestion under consideration."

"You know, this could even be useful tactically," the bard mused. Zevran flashed her a grin.

"The same thought had occurred to me. An overly alert sentry-"

"Or scouting party-"

"Or a barracks full of guards-"

"Spike their water supply-"

"And their wine-"

"Over-salt their food-"

"Take notes-"

_"Pashaara!" _Sten rumbled. "Foolishness. No warrior would allow himself to be distracted so."

"Indeed," Morrigan said sweetly. "Certainly no mighty Qunari warrior."

"Yes."

"'Twould be my pleasure to help you prove the point. Come, drink up."

" . . . "

"What, all mum?"

"Hey! Where's the vial?" Alistair glared around. "All right, which one of you took it?"

"'Twas not I, fool."

"My friend, your keen eye has been burning a hole through me this entire time."

"I'm afraid I wasn't paying attention."

"Stone take you, boy, I'm no thief."

"_Well! _I never! Young man-"

" . . . "

"Don't look at me!"

"People-"

"Well, you're the one who steals everything that isn't nailed down!"

"Not from anyone who matters!"

_Whff._

The agitated babble abruptly cut off and everyone froze. As one, they slowly turned their heads in dawning horror to behold Blossom sitting beside the stump.

He licked his chops and stared at them intently.

"Ohlookit'smyturntohunttonight-"

"Allowmetoaccompanyyoumydear-"

"Nowwhere'dIleavethatsoddingaleskin-"

"Ohmybetterturninearlytheseold-"

"_Vaashedan_-"

"Patrolgoingonpatrolyesthat'sitpatrol-"

In a matter of seconds, Sabhya was alone with Blossom and a few stray feathers drifting in the wake of Morrigan's hasty flight in raven form.

The little mage regarded his friend for a moment, then silently held out his hand. The Mabari blinked innocently.

"Blossom."

The dog ducked his head and spat the vial into Sabhya's palm.

"Thank you." Examining the unbroken seal, Sabhya shook his head. "This is easily as dangerous as a pitcher of Adder's Kiss." He rubbed Blossom's neck as he tucked the vial into a pocket. "Let's go empty it out downstream. If nothing else, a year from now this spot may have the finest trout fishing in the country."

His eyes twinkled.

"That is, unless you think you need it?"

Blossom's answering snort was redolent with smug disdain.

"No, I rather thought not."

**.o0o.**

* * *

_A/N: Coulomb's law concerns the electrostatic force of attraction and repulsion. His experiments involved metal balls. And fluids. _

_Nudge, nudge, wink, wink._


	23. Fever

_A/N: Fanart! The ridiculously awesomely talented Champion the Wonder Snail created this portrait of Sabhya and Blossom that has left me flailing in incoherent joy. :D experimentalgerbil. deviantart. com /art / Blossoming-Friendship-coloured-290101247 Please check out her fiction here and her art on deviant art - you'll be glad you did!_

* * *

**23. Fever**

**.o0o.**

Sabhya tucked his satchel under his arm and tapped on the door, hearing brisk footsteps approach before Wynne swung it open.

"How's our patient?" He spoke quietly, flicking a glance at the anonymous mound on the bed. The elderly woman tsked in exasperation.

"I wish you luck getting him to cooperate." She frowned over her shoulder, then shook her head. "I'd say it was like dealing with a spoiled child, except Maker have pity on any parent whose child has a mouth like _that._"

"Ah. Well, I very much appreciate your consideration, Senior Enchanter, thank you. The innkeeper is keeping something warm for you to eat; please, go on down and get some rest. I'll take over the remainder of the night."

Wynne nodded and looked around as she stepped into the passage. "Dare I ask where that Mabari of yours has disappeared to?"

Sabhya chuckled. "Blossom is holding court amongst the innkeeper's four little girls and garnering so many treats he may have difficulty walking in the morning. Alistair's becoming more than a little jealous, I'm afraid. Sleep well." He waited until she started down the stairs and then moved into the room, closing the door behind him.

After first tending the fire on the tiny hearth, he moved to the bedside table and examined the untouched contents of the cup Wynne had left. He sniffed, tasted, and with a faint grimace set it well aside and began making selections from his satchel.

"I have already told you," Zevran's petulant voice was muffled under the covers, "that I will not drink that vile brew even if you ask me to suckle it from that magnificent bosom of yours."

Sabhya's eyebrows rose. "I'll bear that in mind," he said mildly, taking up the pitcher and pouring water into a metal pannikin. He cupped his hands around it and concentrated as the thin blanket flipped down to reveal a tousled blond head.

"My dear Warden, how long have you been here?" Zevran wobbled as he levered himself up on one elbow and watched with over-bright and slightly unfocused eyes while steam began to rise between Sabhya's hands.

"Not very long." With a sidelong smile at Zevran the little mage dropped a muslin packet into a clean mug and poured the now-hot water over it to steep. He turned, and with a murmured, "If I may," perched on the edge of the bed and touched his wrist to the elf's forehead. "Did you really say that to Wynne?" he added.

"Certainly I did."

"I expect she wasn't best pleased." Long fingers passed under Zevran's jaw to check his pulse.

"She asked if I preferred to have it poured over me, whereupon I pointed out that since it already tasted as though it had been rinsed through someone's _culo_ it could only serve as an improvement."

Sabhya's lips twitched.

"I am nothing if not honest."

"I daresay. Here, sit forward a moment, please." He heaped the bolsters into a more supportive shape and eased Zevran back before rising to check the tea. Satisfied, he pressed the liquid out of the herb packet and stirred in a few drops from a vial. "Hopefully you'll find this less distasteful. I've never subscribed to the philosophy that medicine must taste dreadful in order to be effective." He resumed his seat and handed the mug to Zevran, who was shivering despite the coziness of the small room.

"Mm." The elf sipped listlessly. "Spearmint and rosehips?"

"Among other things."

"Speaking of _culos,_ if you care to volunteer yours I would be delighted to raise your temperature as well."

"No, thank you all the same."

"Eh, admittedly, that was not my most eloquent invitation."

"I'm afraid not, but I appreciate the effort. Try to take four good swallows, please."

"Taskmaster." Zevran took a couple of mouthfuls and held the mug against his bare chest, head lolling as his eyes wandered distractedly around the room. "Someone moved the trireme."

Sabhya followed the direction of his gaze to the hearthrug and looked back.

"Twenty oar seated, fiddlehead scroll prow, scarlet lateen sails. The hull was a bright yellow varnish," he gestured vaguely, "which clashed terribly with the sails."

"A mahogany stain would have been more tasteful," Sabhya said gravely, reaching out to steady the drooping mug. "Just one more, please."

"As gaudy as a Satinalia parade . . ." He obediently drank and closed his eyes as Sabhya removed the cup. "Someone should tell them. . ." His voice faded.

Sabhya waited a few moments before standing and drawing the blanket up to cover the elf's shoulders. He then returned to the items on the table, quietly preparing another tisane and a cooling compress. For a time only an occasional clink and the faint puffs of Zevran's breathing were to be heard over the whispering fire.

"Nnn . . ." A faint moan of distress.

Sabhya was at the bedside immediately. Zevran's lids were flickering, his breath coming in quick, harsh pants.

". . . _no . . . maestro . . ." _

"Ze-"

The elf's eyes snapped open. "_Joder! _Crows!" He snatched up a dagger concealed between mattress and bedstead and flung himself across the room to plunge the blade into the wall. "_. . . de puta madre!"_

Sabhya followed, retrieving the discarded sheath along the way. Zevran stood, swaying and wild-eyed, leaning his weight against the weapon's hilt.

"Zevran." The mage gently cupped his fingers over the other's white knuckled grip. "My friend, hear me. No Crows are here. Only you and I."

"No. You are wrong. They will always be here. _Always._" With a jerky movement Zevran tried to shove the blade deeper. "Always . . ." He whispered raggedly.

Sabhya's eyes filled with compassion. "I know." He rested his other hand on the shivering man's shoulder, feeling the muscles jump and strain under the fevered skin. "But we'll keep them at bay. And here and now, they can't harm you. Let yourself be at ease. It's all right."

Zevran's hair fell forward to curtain his face as his head sagged and his tense energy drained away. After a long moment he asked plaintively, "Truly?"

The smaller man tightened his grip. "You have my word." He carefully worked the dagger free, sheathed it and offered it to Zevran, who blinked at the weapon uncomprehendingly before rousing and accepting it. The mage then hooked the drooping elf's arm over his shoulder and walked him back to the bed.

"I am naked." Zevran observed in a conversational tone.

"So I see."

"More to the point," Zevran continued as Sabhya helped him swing his legs up, "Why are you not naked?"

"Perhaps some other time."

"Is that a promise?" The assassin watched Sabhya return the dagger to its hiding place, then came dangerously close to rolling off the mattress as he reached to check its positioning.

"We'll see."

"Ah, you cannot trick me." Zevran's accusing finger wavered across several points of the compass until Sabhya steadied it for him. "_Gracias. _'We will see' is what the little aunties say when they really mean, 'No, but I plan to wait until you have forgotten you asked.'"

"No auntie, I," responded Sabhya in amusement, pouring some water and seating himself, "although 'little' can't be denied."

"That remains to be seen, does it not?"

Sabhya intercepted an exploratory hand and firmly tucked it under the blanket with a shake of his head.

"Tyrant."

"As you say." He held the mug for Zevran to drink and turned to exchange it for the waiting compress. "Now I most tyrannically suggest that you should try to sleep some more."

A subtle fragrance of mint and lavender arose as Sabhya wrung out the soft cloth, and Zevran listened to the liquid drip back into the basin.

"I do not like the shapes behind my eyelids," he confessed in a small voice.

"Ah." Sabhya folded the cloth and stroked it over the elf's flushed cheeks and neck before pressing it to his forehead. "Then we'll make the shapes into something more pleasing." He paused, looking into cherished memory, and began to speak quietly.

"These are tales my Amah told me, as she was herself told in her day, and as others will tell again.

"A jackal once prowled in search of food, his belly so empty he feared it would meet his spine . . ."

The faint, musical lilt behind the gentle baritone became more pronounced as he continued, and Zevran drifted in and out of consciousness while the little mage told him of the Jackal and the Drum, of the War Between the Birds, of the Silver Whistle, of Lightfoot and Brings-Joy. The logs in the hearth had long slumped into embers when Sabhya ceased to speak, listening to the silence of the small hours.

With some relief he noted the more natural breathing and color of his patient, and the dewy feel of his skin told the mage that the fever had finally broken. Preparing to apply the refreshed compress, he delicately smoothed the sleeping man's hair back from his face.

"That is most soothing." Zevran murmured without opening his eyes.

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to wake you."

"Hm-mm." His head stirred in drowsy negative. "You did not. Do not stop . . ."

"How are you feeling?" Sabhya obligingly drew his fingertips across Zevran's forehead and through his hair.

"Weak. Tired. Relaxed as a babe in . . . at a . . . "

"A magnificent bosom?"

"Heh. That would depend upon the bosom."

"Ah, well, I find myself lacking in that particular area."

"All the same," Zevran turned his cheek into the pillow with a sigh. "You are magnificent nonetheless."


	24. Meanwhile

_In case anyone is interested, a companion piece to 'Mabari & Magus' is now up. 'The Long Road' follows Sabhya from his pre-game origins through the Blight. _

* * *

**24. Meanwhile**

**.o0o.**

Morrigan slipped into the building and silently closed the door behind her. Even to one who could assume a bear's shape, the freezing rain lent the comfortable inn an undeniable appeal. It did not follow, however, that she felt called upon to suffer crowds of bodies and staring eyes. With luck, at this hour the common room should be relatively empty.

"Girls!" The innkeeper's voice carried from the kitchen. "Are Joana and Andrea still in the common room?"

"Yes, Mum." Two dark-haired girl children answered in unison over their shoulders as they hurried through the doorway, carrying between them an enormous platter heaped with wedges of cheese. Their whispered conference floated to Morrigan's ears as they preceded her along the hall.

"You took too much! Mum's going to kill you."

"But it's his _favorite _and he loves it so! And he's all _alone_ and he looks so _sad._"

"And he's so _handsome_. Maybe he'll give us a kiss." The two dissolved into giggles.

The witch rolled her eyes. Well, having to listen to infantile gushing over the ex-Templar fool was certainly one way to quell an appetite.

She entered the common room close on the girls' heels. Sure enough, a distinctly sulky-looking Alistair was sitting alone at a table nursing a tankard. He looked up, scowled at sight of Morrigan, and then his gaze fell upon the mountain of cheese. Instantly, his expression transfigured to a rapture normally associated with the second coming of Andraste, and as the girls approached, he extended both hands in dreamy bliss. . .

And froze as the girls, bobbing curtseys without breaking their stride, continued on past to the corner where an insufferably smug looking Blossom lay in state with two other little girls fussing over him, the smallest actually lying along his back with her arms wrapped around his neck.

"Oo, here, you'll like this!"

"Let me!"

Blossom graciously accepted the offering with thumping tail amidst a flurry of giggles and caresses.

"Aw, good doggie!"

"It's my turn-"

"Eee, he's kissing me!"

"I wuv Bwossum!"

Morrigan raised an eloquent brow and looked sidelong at Alistair, who slumped petulantly and glared at the table.

"Stupid animal."

Blossom rose majestically to his feet and shook himself, the little one clinging limpet-tight and squealing with glee.

"Argh - Hey!"

Alistair groped for a cloth to wipe the gobbet of drool out of his ear as a chorus of four – no, _five_ voices rose in girlish laughter.

"Maker, I hate that dog."

"I wuv Bwossum!"


	25. Eye of the Beholder

_Best wishes for the season to all, and especially to the brilliant souls of CMDA._

* * *

**25. Eye of the Beholder**

**.o0o.**

_Thomp._

Zevran lowered the blade he was tending and regarded the lump of rock at his feet.

"Gratified as I am by your attention, sadly I am otherwise occupied at present," he told Blossom.

The dog merely sat and scratched thoroughly under his shoulder.

"Ah? _Bien._ Just as well. A rock that so closely approaches the size of my head would be inconvenient for casual tossing. Not to mention-" Leaning forward, Zevran prodded it dubiously. "The customary overabundance of lubrication." He eyed the glutinous string trailing from his fingertip with fastidious disapproval, and then brightened.

"Perhaps tonight you will confine your attentions to this and spare my leathers your salivary predation?"

_Awooworrauuaiee-pwffch!_

"I will take that as a 'no.'"

_Whff._

"_Brasca._"

**.o0o.**

"Oh, no, no, _no!_ Do _not_ drop that filthy thing onto my—"

_Thumprnkl._

"—books." Wynne sighed.

**.o0o.**

"Oh, who's a good dog?"

_Thomp._

"You are. Yes, you are."

_Awoo._

"And so talkative. What a clever boy you are. Yes, who has a nice rock? You do, yes you do. Do you want a nice bikkie? So much nicer to eat than rocks – or shoes. Yes, it is."

**.o0o.**

Alistair heaved a put-upon sigh as Blossom approached, juggling a rock temptingly, to sit before him.

"Always with the rocks."

_Crch-slcrch-crch._

"I mean, seriously, it's a _rock._"

_Crch-crch._

"Why can't you play like a normal dog? Get a stick. Or a ball. Or a bone. A rock is ju—"

_Thunk!_

"_Aargh! _My _foot!_"

**.o0o.**

_Thomp._

"Heh, that's right." Oghren picked up the chunk of rock and hefted it broodingly. "Nothing like a piece of Stone for a _real_ game."

_Whff._

"Guess it figures a hairy bronto like you would understand that. Not like all these other surfacers. Never had living Stone under their feet, nothing overhead where it belongs. Just that weird, water-dripping nothingness. Open . . empty . . . unending . . . _ergh_." The dwarf squeezed his eyes shut, his face suddenly gone chalky, and gripped the rock in both hands.

"I think I'll just . . . hold onto this . . . for a while."

**.o0o.**

_Thomp._

"Enchantment?"

_Whff._

"En-_chant_-ment!"

**.o0o.**

"It is a rock."

_Thomp._

"Why did you bring me this rock? It is inadequate as a weapon and not the right kind for a fire starter. It serves no purpose."

_Whff._

"I do not understand. Why do you carry it around? Why should I? Is it some kind of training exercise?"

_Rrwhff._

"It seems inefficient."

_Rrrrf._

**.o0o.**

"Hmmph. Well, 'tis preferable to finding a rotting coney in my spare smallclothes."

**.o0o.**

_Thomp._

Sabhya put aside the elfroot he had been cleaning and obligingly picked up the rock to throw it, but was forestalled when Blossom flopped down to lie across his leg. Chuckling, the mage rubbed his friend's massive head and idly perused the stone in his hand.

Clods of damp earth dropped, dark and rich with the promise of new growth, and flecks of mica glinted as he turned it. A spill of milky quartzite threaded its way through a miniature landscape of grey-dark crags and ravines marked, rune like, with the white cross-hatching from scraping fangs. Each glassy bubble of froth was adorned with a tiny window of iridescence that quivered and slid under the slightest stirring of air.

Sabhya smiled.

"It's beautiful. Thank you."

**.o0o.**


End file.
